The Fatal Cord Part 16

He was more himself after he had received the refusal, which he did, in as delicate terms as the young lady could command.

But, delicacy was thrown away upon the spiteful planter, who, stung by the thought of being refused by the daughter of a poor white--he knew the secret of Jerry Rook's altered circ.u.mstances--began upbraiding in terms of opprobrious wrath the woman from whose feet he had just arisen!

The young girl, thus grossly outraged, would have called to her father for protection, but again remembering his words, she remained silent under the infliction, not even making answer to her cowardly insulter.

"Somebody else, I suppose," said the rejected gentleman, spitefully p.r.o.nouncing the words. "Some poor 'trash' of your own sort has got a hold of you! By--!" the ruffian swore a frightful oath, "if it be so, when I find out who it is, and I don't care who it is, I'll make these settlements too hot to hold him! _Lena Rook, you'll rue this refusal_!"

Not a word said Lena Rook in reply to this coa.r.s.e invective. A disdainful curl upon her lip was all the answer she vouchsafed; which stayed there as she stood watching him along the walk, and until he had remounted his horse, and galloped off from the gate.

Her's were not the only eyes bent upon the disappointed suitor. Jerry Rook, engaged among the pigs and poultry, saw him ride away; and from the spiteful spurring of his horse, and the reckless air with which he rode, the old hunter conjectured the sort of answer that had been given him.

"Durn the girl!" muttered he, as a black shadow swept across his wrinkled brow; "she's played fool, an' refused him! Looks as ef she'd sa.s.sed him! Never mind, Alf Brandon, I'll make it all right for you.

This chile ain't a gwine to let that fine plantashin o' your's slip through his fingers--not ef he know it. You shall hev the gurl, and she you, ef I hev myself to drag her up to the haltar. So, then, my Lena, la.s.s, when I've done here I'm a gwine to read you a lecture."

If the abrupt departure of Brandon had brought anger into the eyes of Lena Rook, there was yet another pair watching it, that became suffused with joy.

They were the eyes of Pierre Robideau.

After parting from that sweetheart so long separated from him, the young man had recrossed the creek; and, as he had intended, kept on through the woods towards the stand where he had left his horse.

Before going far, the thought occurred to him that he might as well have a look at the quondam squatter, and see if he, too, was changed like everything else.

It was only to place himself in the ambush that had already proved so serviceable to his purposes, and stay there till Jerry should show himself!

Knowing that the porches of a backwood's dwelling usually supplies the place of sitting-room, he did not antic.i.p.ate any severe trial of patience.

It was not the gratification of mere curiosity that tempted him to return. He had other reasons that rendered him desirous to look upon his host of former days; at the same time that he was equally desirous not to let that host see him.

Nor was it exactly a desire that counselled him to this act; but a sort of involuntary impulse, such as the bird feels to approach the serpent that would destroy it.

Pierre Robideau had returned from California, better informed about the doings of Jerry Rook than he had been on going out there. It was the old hunter who had induced him to take that distant journey. He had counselled, almost compelled, him to it, by a false story that his father had gone there before him, and had entrusted Jerry to send him after in all haste. For this purpose, his former host had furnished the outfit and directions, and had even seen him some distance on his way.

As already stated the unsuspicious youth, before starting, knew nothing of what had occurred that night in the glade--not even that while he was himself hanging there, his father had been so near him!

The story of the lynching had been kept from him previous to his departure, Jerry Rook alone having access to him, and carefully guarding against all other approach.

It was only after his arrival in California, and failing to find his father at the appointed place, that he had heard of the tragedy on Caney Creek, and who had been its victim.

The tale had got among the gold diggers, brought out by some new arrivals from Little Rock.

Why Jerry Rook had been so anxious to get him away, Pierre Robideau could never tell, though he had some terrible suspicions about it-- almost pointing out the old squatter as one of his father's murderers.

It was this sort of curiosity that caused him to turn among the trees, and steal back to the concealment he had so recently forsaken. Perhaps, too, he may have wished once more to gratify his eyes by gazing on that loved form so unceremoniously hurried out of his sight.

Whether or not, he was soon in his old position, and gazing intently through the curtain of leaves.

So far as Jerry Rook was concerned, he obtained the satisfaction he had sought for. His quondam host was in front of the house, in conversation with his daughter, who stood in the porch above him.

Pierre had arrived at the moment when that question was put, so nearly concerning himself.

He did not hear it, but he noticed the embarra.s.sed air of the young lady, and the quick change that came over her countenance as she adroitly evaded the answer.

From that moment Jerry Rook was no longer regarded. A third personage had appeared upon the scene, and the pleasing look with which Jerry Rook's daughter appeared to receive him sent a pang through the heart of Pierre Robideau.

The exclamation had told him who the new comer was. But he did not heed that.

No time could efface from his memory the image of one who had so cruelly outraged him, and six years had produced but little change in Alf Brandon.

Pierre knew him on sight.

With heart beating wildly, he remained a silent witness of the scene that ensued.

At first it beat bitterly, as he marked and misinterpreted the complaisant look with which Lena regarded his rival.

Ere long came a delightful change, as he listened to the dialogue-- plainly overheard where he stood--and, when he heard the final speech, and saw the discomfited lover stride off towards the gate, he could scarce restrain himself from a shout of joy.

He was fain to have sprung across the creek, and once more enfolded that fair form in his pa.s.sionate embrace. But he saw that mischief might spring from such imprudence; and, turning from the spot, he walked silently away--his heart now swelling with triumph, now subsiding into sweet contentment.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A CONCLAVE OF SCOUNDRELS.

There was a time when "Slaughter's Hotel" was the first and only house of its kind in the town of Helena. That was when Slaughter, senior, presided over its destinies. Now that he was no more, and his son walked rather slipshod in his shoes, it had sunk into a second-rate place of entertainment--an establishment more respectable, or, at all events, more pretentious, having swung out its sign.

In Slaughter's hostelry _bona fide_ travellers had become scarce. Still it was not without guests and patrons in plenty. There were enough "sportsmen" in the place, with adventurers of other kinds, to give the house a custom, and these princ.i.p.ally patronised it. From a family hotel, it had changed into a drinking and gambling saloon, and in this respect was prosperous enough. It was the resort of all the dissipated young men of the neighbourhood--and the old ones too. It had public and private parlours, and one of the latter, the landlord's own, was only accessible to the select of his acquaintances--his cronies of a special type.

On the evening of that day in which Alfred Brandon had received his dismissal from the daughter of Jerry Rook, this apartment was occupied by six persons, including the landlord himself. They were the same who had figured in the hanging frolic, of which young Robideau had been so near being the victim. On this account, it is not necessary to give their names nor any description of them, farther than to say that all six were as wild and wicked as ever, or, to speak with greater exact.i.tude, wilder and more wicked.

It might seem strange that chance had brought these young men together without any other company, but the closed door, and the order for no one to be admitted, showed that their meeting was not by mere accident.

Their conversation, already commenced, told that they had met by appointment, as also the purpose of their a.s.sembling.

It was Alfred Brandon who had summoned them to the secret conclave, and he who made the opening speech, declaring his object in having done so.

After "drinks all round," Brandon had said:--

"Well, boys, I've sent for you to meet me here, and here we are, guests; you know why?"

"I guess we don't," bluntly responded Buck.

"Choc?" suggested Slaughter.

"Well, we know it's about Choc," a.s.sented the son of the horse dealer; "any fool might guess that. But what about him? Let's hear what you've got to say, Alf."

"Well, not much, after all. Only that I think it's high time we took some steps to get rid of this infernal tax we've been paying."

"Oh! you're come to that, are you? I thought you would, sometime. But for you, Alf Brandon, we might have done somethin' long ago. I'm out o'